But what I just said is so.”
“And you swear on the Bible, do you, that you experienced a change of heart?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That Miss Alden was very sad and that was what moved you to experience this change of heart?”
“Yes, sir.
That’s how it was.”
“Well, now, Griffiths, when she was up there in the country and waiting for you — she wrote you all those letters there, did she not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You received one on an average of every two days, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you knew she was lonely and miserable there, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir — but then I’ve explained —”
“Oh, you’ve explained!
You mean your lawyers have explained it for you!
Didn’t they coach you day after day in that jail over there as to how you were to answer when the time came?”
“No, sir, they didn’t!” replied Clyde, defiantly, catching Jephson’s eye at this moment.
“Well, then when I asked you up there at Bear Lake how it was that his girl met her death — why didn’t you tell me then and save all this trouble and suspicion and investigation?
Don’t you think the public would have listened more kindly and believingly there than it will now after you’ve taken five long months to think it all out with the help of two lawyers?”
“But I didn’t think it out with any lawyers,” persisted Clyde, still looking at Jephson, who was supporting him with all his mental strength.
“I’ve just explained why I did that.”
“You’ve explained!
You’ve explained!” roared Mason, almost beside himself with the knowledge that this false explanation was sufficient of a shield or barrier for Clyde to hide behind whenever he found himself being too hard pressed — the little rat!
And so now he fairly quivered with baffled rage as he proceeded. “And before you went up — while she was writing them to you — you considered them sad, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes, sir.
That is”— he hesitated incautiously —“some parts of them anyhow.”
“Oh, I see — only some parts of them now.
I thought you just said you considered them sad.”
“Well, I do.”
“And did.”
“Yes, sir — and did.”
But Clyde’s eyes were beginning to wander nervously in the direction of Jephson, who was fixing him as with a beam of light.
“Remember her writing you this?”
And here Mason picked up and opened one of the letters and began reading:
“Clyde — I shall certainly die, dear, if you don’t come.
I am so much alone.
I am nearly crazy now.
I wish I could go away and never return or trouble you any more.
But if you would only telephone me, even so much as once every other day, since you won’t write.
And when I need you and a word of encouragement so.” Mason’s voice was mellow. It was sad.
One could feel, as he spoke, the wave of passing pity that was moving as sound and color not only through him but through every spectator in the high, narrow courtroom.
“Does that seem at all sad to you?”
“Yes, sir, it does.”
“Did it then?”
“Yes, sir, it did.”
“You knew it was sincere, didn’t you?” snarled Mason.
“Yes, sir.
I did.”
“Then why didn’t a little of that pity that you claim moved you so deeply out there in the center of Big Bittern move you down there in Lycurgus to pick up the telephone there in Mrs. Peyton’s house where you were and reassure that lonely girl by so much as a word that you were coming?
Was it because your pity for her then wasn’t as great as it was after she wrote you that threatening letter?
Or was it because you had a plot and you were afraid that too much telephoning to her might attract attention?